


here lies who was once loved

by asiren (meliorismo)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Family Dynamics, Gen, Married Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Non-Linear Narrative, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13660482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meliorismo/pseuds/asiren
Summary: “They are my parents”, she murmured, as if these words had never failed her before. They are my parents, as if it meant anything at all.





	here lies who was once loved

**Author's Note:**

> 4 months. it took me 4 months to finish because of fanfests that im involved with at the side. but i never gave up!! because i love abigail so much and she was needing a character study parent-child past building. i also wanted to answer the question _what makes someone walk straight into their death like she did in the s02 finale?_ it is in my mind ever since.  
>  anyway, it's unrevised, sorry about that.

**here lies who was once loved**

 

_And indeed there will be time_

_To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’_

t. s. eliot

 

“Abigail!” Louise yelled at her from the door of their house. “Come back inside, girl, what do you think you’re doing?”

She standed there, motionless, trying to play dead. Would her mother go away if she thought Abigail was no more? She wished that the rules were clearer. Then, Abigail would always know what to do when she wanted her parents to leave her alone. She was only six years old but she wasn’t stupid. (She really wasn’t) _._ “I’m just playing, Ma. I found a bug.”

“Put this thing on the ground, how can you know it’s not going to bite you?”

“Mama, it doesn’t make any sense! The bug is so small, he couldn’t hurt me.”

Louise sighed. “The dinner will be ready soon. Do you want to eat dirt? Because that’s the only thing that you can eat out there. But here, at the table, we will have chicken. Your choice.”

“There’s grass here too. I could eat grass and then dirt, like dessert.”

“What do you think your father is going to think when he gets here and find his daughter eating dirt?”

“He is going to think that I am very smart and”, she paused, thinking. “a born survivor. That’s what he says all the time.”

“Twenty minutes, Abigail.”, her mother spoke over her daughter’s words. “Twenty minutes and then you will say goodbye to your bug and will come here to eat dinner like a lady.”

“Ma!”

“This isn’t a negotiation.” Louise’s voice was very steely. “Twenty minutes, goodbye, then chicken.”

“You’re so fascist!”

“This isn’t what this word means — you tried, though. Enjoy your bug.”

“Be sure that I will!”

Louise nodded decisively at her daughter and then closed the door. Abigail was _livid._ How could her mother be so tyrannical. How could her mother do something like that! So _unfair._ Terribly mean. “Well, Linda.” she murmured to the bug. “I guess we will have to hide you under my bed.”  

Linda didn’t say anything back. She _did_ move her body a little to the left, though, the closest thing to approval someone can get from a bug. Abigail smiled — it almost looked like Linda had waved.

**//**

Abigail woke up, her throat tight and her cheeks wet. She sighed, her face pressed against the green pillowcase, her body contorted like a ball, her hair half on her mouth. _It is just a memory,_ she muttered to herself, but even on her mind her words sounded hollow. _I’m fine now. I’m safe, I’m free._ Her bedroom was cold and dark. She didn’t know where she was, exactly. Abigail trusted Hannibal to take care of her, and she couldn’t bear the possibility that it had been the wrong call.

 _He loves me_ , she thought fervently. _He loves me. They love me. And they will keep me safe._

“They are my parents”, she murmured, as if these words had never failed her before. They are my parents, as if it meant anything.

**//**

"The secret", Abigail's father told her, "is to be careful. You can't underestimate the things that an animal can do to save its life. You can't underestimate the things the animal is capable of. Do you understand?"

"Yes, dad", she answered dutifully. A little deer was drinking water from a pulp left there by the rain. They were very quiet, and stood against (was it?) the wind.

"Modern hunters don't appreciate the art of observation and approximation anymore, because of tactics like using a tower. They are all wrong, though. You can't call yourself a true hunter if all you do is sit around, waiting for the animal to go to you. You have to be proactive."

"They say it all the time at school", Abigail said to him, proud of knowing something. "That we have to be proactive and go after what we want instead of letting life happen to us."

Garrett smiled at her. His little girl, kind of small for her age, but so very smart. "Your school is right. It's the same principle and is very important."

They stood there, watching the deer for what felt like hours. Later, when Abigail wouldn’t be a child anymore, she would remember these times as the beginning of something that she could never leave behind.  The principle of everything that was wrong with her life. That was wrong with _her_ , as a person — as a human being.  

( _You’re not human,_ she would think then. _All that you are is a bait_ — _a trap for other poor girls who were unfortunate enough to look at you._

Poor child, can’t you see? In heaven God will look at you and laugh).

"Do we have to kill it? Dad?"

"It's for the best, angel."

"Why?"

"Because, darling!” he grinned, thinking _how silly, how silly, how silly._ “It's how we live. It's who we _are_."

**//**

Louise was wearing a cooking apron red and white, the kind with stripes. Everything about her was festive and christmas-y, even if they only were in november 10th. The tree was already on the living room, and they would have to buy a new one in december because it will be too dead by then. Louise didn’t care, though, and Garrett always did everything she wanted. He always did everything Abigail wanted, too, and she used to think about what her father would do if some day she said that she didn’t want a christmas tree in november anymore. That it was embarrassing, kind of, because all her friends didn’t even look at gingerbread till december 22nd.

Why would she do something like that, though, was always Abigail’s conclusion. Why would she hurt her mother over nothing?

(but, in the end of the day, she did thought about it.

she thought about it a lot)

“Our lesson today is how to make the most perfect apple pie.” Louise said, proudly. In front of her, an ocean of kitchen supplies extended in all directions. Abigail felt so overwhelmed she wanted to run.

“Why apple pie?”

“Well, it’s so American!”

“Ma, you’re half pakistani.”

“Oh, Abigail, stop antagonizing me. You understand what I mean.”

Abigail smirked. “Do I? Do I really?”

“Do you want to learn or not?” Louise looked at her daughter, impatient. She regretted letting Garrett raise their baby like a wild thing, even if she wouldn’t ever say so. Abigail was more like a feral cat than a girl, sometimes, but Louise didn’t have anything to complain about her. She was a good and obedient daughter; her only sin was having one hell of a tongue.

Abigail grinned at her, a soft smile that was also Louise’s. It was in moments like that, those soft, stolen seconds, that Louise could see herself in her child and feel _blessed_. “Ma, I’m just messing with you. I think apple pie is fucking great.”

“Swearing jar, Abigail!” her father yelled from the other room. What was he doing, though, was beyond her. Fixing the TV? Messing it up even more until it became unrecognizable?

“I don’t have any money!” Abigail yelled back.

“Where are your lunch money?”

“Ma, please. I already spent it. I told you today! You never listen to me.”

“This girl! Garrett, did you hear that?”

“Abigail, for God’s sake”, he walked in, and leaned against the door, shaking his head. He was smiling, kind of. “Just take some money from my wallet and put it on the jar.”

“This is hardly teaching her anything”, Louise told him, disapproval all over her.

“Is it to teach her? I always thought we did it because it’s fancy.”

“I knew it!” Abigail yelled, triumphant, from the other side of the kitchen.

“Thank you so much, Garrett.” Louise said to her husband, sarcastic. “I always can count on you to do the sensible thing.”

“You’re welcome, honey”, he answered her. “Love you too.”

Abigail rolled her eyes.

Louise rolled her eyes.

(Garrett grinned at them).

**//**

"And this", her mother said to her, "is the sound a piano will make when you play it. Can you recognize?"

"I heard it in that movie yesterday, Ma", Abigail answered Louise, promptly. "During that song with the crab."

"Did you like it?"

Abigail paused, thinking. She was small for her age, kind of, and Louise worried about her constantly. "It was good."

"Do you want to learn how to play it?"

"Ma! Can I?"

Louise smiled at her daughter, who was sitting at the ground beside the piano, toying with color blocks. "I can play it. So I will be your teacher."

"Who taught you, Ma?"

"My own mama."

"Was it nice?"

"Oh! Yes. I play when I miss her."

Abigail was silent for a while — Louise waited for her, patient. She was a stay-at-home mom; she chose it when she got pregnant. She lived for her baby, and she was happy that way. Louise was always tense, though, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She didn’t believe in undying happiness. "Where is grandmother, Ma?"

"In heaven, angel."

"When she will be back?"

"I don't think she ever will, darling. I'm sorry."

Abigail looked at her, big clear eyes and a block red as a firetruck on her left hand. "Lavinia's grandmother is gone too. They put flowers on her grave once a month."

"We — your father and I —, we don't believe in honoring the dead this way, angel."

"I think it's sweet", Abigail told her, solemn the way only children can be. "I think you should always put flowers on sad graves."

**//**

_He tried to kill me,_ Abigail thought to herself. She wasn’t shocked. It was a long coming, really, but she was an expert in denial (in delusion, too, if under duress). _He tried to kill me_ , she repeated, and her words sounded resigned. _Is this my entire life?_

“She will live”, the doctor’s voice was low and absent-minded. He was talking about her, probably, standing at the other side of the door. But who would have any interest in knowing how she was? Her mother was so dead, and her father—

“How do you think she is holding up?” a male voice — familiar, soothing — answered the doctor. “Like, mentally.”

“It’s hard to know. She will have to consult with a therapist. I don’t think it’ll be good for her health if she just leave the hospital to go back to normal life, without any transition.”

“Oh. There will never be a normal life again; not the way she knew it.” sigh. “I know some pretty good psychiatrists.” the voice replied, sounding far away. “Can I see her?”

“You can’t upset her, Mr. Graham. And I mean it.”

“I won’t! Jesus. It’s okay, Doc. I will be very quiet. Can I see her?”

Silence. Abigail wanted to get up and stand against the wall, maybe listen to something. Muttering voices re-started the conversation for half a minute, maybe, before the door opened and she closed her eyes.

“Abigail? Ms. Hobbs?” the voice — Mr. Graham — spoke hesitantly. He gave the impression of being someone who did everything with a lot of caution, which wasn’t something that she was used to. _Who is Miss Hobbs?_ she sighed. _Is it me?_

Abigail opened her eyes. In front of her, stood kind of awkwardly the man who saved her life (and killed her father). He looked like he wished he were anywhere else, including drowning in the sea. She could relate.

“Who are you?” she asked, to be kind. Her voice sounded terrible. His eyes softened with it, though, losing a little of that edge of discomfort.

“I’m Will Graham and I’m with, uh, with the FBI. I worked at your father’s— well, case.”

“Oh.” she said.

“I hope I’m not perturbing you, I just wanted to know how you were.”

“I take it was an impressive amount of blood.”

“What?”

“My throat.”

“Uh. It was.”

 _Dad never did things halfway,_ she thought to herself. It was almost comforting, the familiarity of routine. “Oh.”

“I will give you my number. You can call if you need something.” Will handed her a piece of paper full of small writing in black ballpoint. She took it. “Anything. Anytime at all.”

“Thank you, Mr. Graham.”

“You welcome, Ms. Hobbs.” he told her, fervently. She wished she could smile at him. He sounded so sincere. “I hope you get better soon.”

“Oh.” she repeated again, like a parrot.

He smiled at her one last time, waved and left her room, as if it had never happened at all.

**//**

The waiting room was nice and blue, with everything in its place. The magazines were on a small table, and their cover announced all kind of things entirely unrelated to the issues someone would have to own to end up in a psychiatric clinic. Even the receptionist, blond and pretty, looked like she belonged to a small spa. There were paintings on the walls and plenty of big windows. Hannibal told her that it was that way because some people could feel trapped and vulnerable in a room without sunlight. The way he said _some people_ made Will rolls his eyes. Hannibal smiled at him, smug. Abigail watched them bickering for ten minutes before getting bored.

She wanted to ask them, _do you want me to change my surname?_ because that question was spiralling non-stop around her head for two weeks. _I’m your daughter now. Do you want people to know? Do you want them to forget where I come from, my psychotic biological father and my passive, dead mother?_

_Do you regret choosing me?_

Will smiled at her, concern all around his greenish blue eyes — something about it made him look five years older. Hannibal rested a hand on Will’s arm, placid. He always looked like nothing could ever bother him, including but not exclusively his new daughter issues; it used to make her feel scared — someone she couldn’t predict —, but Will was so transparent that it was nice to have someone she didn’t have to actively _know_ about their feelings all the time.

“Are you sure about it? We can go back here later. You know, in the future.” Will told her, reassuring. She didn’t know who needed the therapy _more_ , if it was her or if it was Will. Abigail fussed with her blood-red scarf, tightening it around her neck. Will’s eyes went dark and upset with the sight of it, so she knew she had to say something before he dragged her and Hannibal away from the small blue room.

“I think it will be good. That was what the doctor said.”

“Doctors don’t always know better.” _It is a role for your parents,_ went without saying. But parents always ruined her, didn’t them? She smiled.

“Hannibal is a doctor. He thinks it is for the best, doesn’t he?”

Hannibal sighed and threw her a look _why are you dragging me to be part of this._ She stared, daring him to make things worse. “I think it is something that she needs.” was what he ended up saying. Will didn’t look convinced, and Abigail feared he would really drag her away. With her best interests at heart, but still.

“Ms. Hobbs”, Dr. Bloom called her from the door, and Abigail sighed relieved. She smiled at her parents (adoptive parents?) and waved, getting up. The magazine about dogs that Will was reading looked threatening with their cover with small puppies, or it could have been just Will’s expression. He didn’t like having Abigail to consult with Alana, but Hannibal had won the argument about her mental health the night before; there was nothing he could do beside glare angrily at everyone.

“I’ll be back soon”, she told them. Hannibal smiled.

“Have fun, dear”, he said to her, thick accent on _dear._ She waved again. Will didn’t acknowledge her, and she sighed.

“It will be okay.”

“Anything”, he said to her. “Anything you just scream a little and we will be there immediately.”

“What could happen?”

“Anything, Abigail. You have to promise.”

She looked at him, exasperated. “Well, I promise. If something smells fishy I’ll yell.”

“We have your back, darling”, Hannibal told her, absent-minded while reading some article about wine.

She waved at them, again, and they waved back. Then she went to Dr. Bloom’s office, closing the door with a bang behind her.

**//**

_“Happy birthday to you”_ , all the voices echoed, _“happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Abby, happy birthday to you…”_

 

Abigail opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. The taste of chocolate cake was heavy on her mouth, even if all that she ate for the last couple of hours were hospital food. She sighed, and pressed her face against the pillow, her vision blacked because of the blue case, her breath short because of the nightmare. _I could scream,_ she thought to herself, _I could scream, and maybe Will’d hear me. If he did, he would come here, and I would tell him everything. I would tell him and he would love me anyway._

She sat up on her bed, drawing her knees close to her chest. She couldn’t do it. What would it accomplish, anyway? Just a little peace of mind? And at what cost, really? Will was not a murderer. Hell, _she_ was not a murderer. (Probably. The law wasn’t clear).

_I’m young, and foolish. I can’t be found guilty, because I was traumatized…_

At the end of the bed, one of the dogs opened his shiny eyes and stared at her, judgemental. “Come here”, she told him, waving her hand. “Come here and stay with me.” the dog walked until he could rest his head on her knee, _what now_? She grinned in the dark.

“Tomorrow is my birthday.” she said. He looked at her, almost apologetic. “Eighteen, uh? They say that in most countries it means you are already an adult. Can you imagine?”

The dog didn’t answer her. She probably couldn’t understand him well enough; sometimes Abigail could _swear_ that they talked to Will like people. She pet the dog with care, comforted by his presence. “Is this why Will keeps so many of you?” she murmured, the words small in the stale air of the guest bedroom. _Her_ bedroom. “Makes sense.”

She lie down, hugging the dog to her chest. He kept up with her mess stoically, like a soldier fighting a pointless war. Abigail admired that about him. She wished that, maybe — just maybe —, he admired something about her too.

**//**

Everything about the tea was very fancy, the pot and the cup and the smell. She couldn’t name any of it, but she kept smiling at Hannibal while he was telling her some story or another about chinese leaves.

(Or was it hungarian? Maybe?)

“Sounds nice”, she answered him during the expectant pause that meant the end of that scene. Hannibal looked at her, as if trying to measure her sincerity. She held his gaze during a minute, her hand busy with the porcelain cup. Abigail was afraid that she would drop it and would have to bear Hannibal’s warm-while-accusatory tone for the rest of her life.

“It was nice, indeed”, he told her, finally. As if the words were enough to end the suspension, everything was set in motion again. “We ended up a little beaten up, though. Chiyoh and I.”

“Who is she?”

“An old friend; my relative. She is lovely, I wish she could be with us.” he smiled. “Chiyoh would be an amazing influence on you. Not that you need it, of course. It’s just that Will is worried about the lack of female figures on your life.”

“I have Dr. Bloom”, she protested, half-hearted. It didn’t matter, really; this long lost aunt would never be part of her life enough to be something to worry about.

“Your psychiatrist, I’m afraid, doesn’t really count.”

“It isn’t fair.” Abigail rested her face against her right hand, her elbow firm against the couch. Hannibal smiled at her, a soft little thing, and she realized that she was doing the same exasperated moves Will would do. _I’m their daughter_ , she thought to herself, _and they say that kids look like their parents._ She rose her eyes and looked at the ceiling, an elegant thing made of wood-y and screaming money. Was this her life now? Fancy tea, people worrying constantly about her — sit straight, smile more, eat your fish —, a pack of dogs, two (good?) parents and high society small affairs?

She smiled at her father, absent. “Could you tell me again that story of when you ended up almost dying on a freezing lake during _winter_?”

“I can tell it a million times, Abigail”, Hannibal answered her. “if you swear you will remember that it was _russian_ winter and not this sad excuse of snow that you have here in North America.“

**//**

Abigail looked at her pretty princess dress, pink and kind of bubbly as if she was a fairy. She wanted wings and almost got a pair, but the shop had run out of it two days before her parents went there to pick up her special costume. It was her birthday — eight years old. Her mother, Louise, was serving soda to the kids and beer to the grown ups, too busy to give her daughter any attention. Her father, Garrett, was trying to stay out of his wife’s way, running from the parent sacred duty of being responsible for twenty people’s happiness during six hours.

“When will they realize that you hid half of the candies?” Isabel grinned at her friend, her voice muffled because she was drinking soda from a green-and-blue striped straw. The sound was kinda funny because the cup was very small.

“I don’t know”, Abigail answered her. “Ma didn’t stop moving around since she woke up with the chickens this morning.”

“And your dad?”

“Ah, you know how he is… He heard there would be people then he went and hid at the barns.”

“When did you got the time to steal the candies anyway?”

“A little before Ma’s guests started to arrive. She was so busy! I couldn’t help myself. But I will return them.”

Isabel giggled. “When?”

“I will only eat two more.” Abigail told her, full of dignity.

Louise stopped in front of her daughter, smiling apologetically. “Love, I’m so sorry I didn’t got to stop today.” she said. “Let me just get the finger food and then you and your friends can run around the room.”

“Ma! We are not children anymore. We don’t want to _run around the room._ ” Abigail breathed, mortified.

“Uh, I want to.” Isabel meddled. “It would be great, Mrs. Hobbs.”

Louise grinned at the girls, tired around the eyes. “Just wait a minute, right?”

“For the finger foods!” Abigail answered her mother, dutifully.

“Yes, love. For the finger foods.”

**//**

Hannibal stared at his daughter, face blank. “It will be just for a little while”, he repeated, but she didn’t want to know. Abigail shook her head, twice.

“Why can’t we tell Will?” she asked for the ninth time. It didn’t sound good. It didn’t sound good at all. Last time she followed one father her mother ended up dead. If she follow this one, what will happen to her other parent? Will loves her. He would never leave her behind. He would never, ever, do anything to hurt her.

“He will know when the time is right. I’m doing this for both of you.” Hannibal glared at her, as if saying _stop the fuss and get in the car._ She stood her ground.

“I want to talk to him. Can I call him?”

“It’s not a good idea right now.”

“Hannibal!”

He sighed, as if it was her who was being difficult. “Look, Abigail. You’re an adult — so I will talk to you as such. Things are going to get ugly for awhile. I don’t know how long. All I’m trying to do is keep you hiding until it gets safe. Then, you will come back to your home, and we are going to be a family again. You will go to college and have a life.”

“Why can’t we tell Will?” she repeated, like a sad parrot.

“He can’t know.”

Would Hannibal take it very personally, maybe, if she kicked him and ran away? “Why?”

“It’s better this way.”

“ _Why._ ”

“Because Will loves you so much, and is so overprotective, he would never let you go.”

“Maybe he is right.”

“He isn’t.”

“Maybe he _is._ ”

“Abigail”, he breathed in and out, probably taming down his urge of throwing her under a literal bus. “He isn’t.”

“You want me to leave without saying goodbye!”

“It is not a goodbye when you’ll _come back._ ”

“Will you tell him that I’m safe? Will you tell him that I’m alright?”

“Abigail. I love you and I definitely love Will more than anything — in the world. So yes, I will tell him you’re alive and well.”

She sighed, looking at her bags dubiously. It didn’t sound like a good idea, but how could she know? She was doing nothing but making poor life choices since birth. “I don’t want him to worry.”

“He won’t.”

“Do you promise?” Abigail looked at him, side-eyed.

“Oh, honey.” he smiled at her, warmly. “Of _course_ I do.”

**//**

"Oh, where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?" Abigail sang dutifully while the other kids moved around. She was wearing jeans pants and not a skirt, and because of it she couldn't be part of the turning-the-fabric routine. "Oh, where have you been, charming Billy! I have been to seek a wife; she's the joy of my life! She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother."

The boys clapped their hands and the girls clapped their hands and Abigail clapped her hands. A young, small girl smiled wide and started her part, "Did she bid you to come in, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Did she bid you to come in, charming Billy?"

Some boy, John or James or whatever, sang then, "Yes, she bade me to come in! There's a dimple in her chin! She's a young thing..."

And all, "And _cannot_ leave her mother!"

All the children laughed and the wearing-skirts-girls swirled their fabrics in a rainbow-colored spectacle. Abigail grinned at them and they grinned back, and she felt part of her community for the first time. She was small and isolated, lost in the farm with anti-socials for parents. She was also only 25% pakistani, which meant that she wasn’t white enough for the white kids, but she wasn’t brown enough for the kids of color.

"Can she make a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Can she make a cherry pie, charming Billy?" Isabel, the brazilian girl, clapped her hands with so much force that her skin went pink. "She can make a cherry pie, quick as a cat can wink her eye! She is a young thing..."

"And cannot leave her mother!"

Isabel went on, because her voice was the prettiest and everyone liked her. "Is she often seen at church, Bully Boy, Billy Boy? Is she often seen at church, charming Billy?" she paused, looking at Abigail meaningful. "It's your turn now."

"Now?"

The other children giggled.

"Go on, go on!"

"Uh. Yes, she's often seen at church, with a bonnet white as birch. She's a young thing..."

"And _cannot_ leave her mother!" Isabel ended up the sentence, and then swirled around, her red, floating skirt making a fairy out of her. The other children clapped their hands, and Isabel clapped her hands, and then Abigail clapped her hands. Isabel smiled at her, soft and warm. _We are friends now,_ her smile said. _We are friends now._

(abigail looked at her, lost, for five seconds. _is this how you make friends_? she was seven and had never had one. isabel smiled, insistent.

 

then abigail smiled back).

**//**

Hannibal entered the house, looking frantic. Abigail tried to calm down her heartbeat, because if something terrible had happened then she would need her cool to handle it, right? Someone would think that after everything that she had been through then she would know how to deal with shit a lot better, but it wasn’t true. Her nature was the same. Follow first, ask later.

“Grab your things”, Hannibal finally said. “We are leaving.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” he told her, looking cold and remote. Abigail wanted to run. Everything in her screamed _get out of there! get out of there!_ but she couldn’t. It was too late. She made a choice, and now was the time to follow it till its end.

“Is Will okay?” she asked her father, hesitant.

“He’s fine. It’s because of him that we are leaving. We are going to be together, finally.”

“You mean it?”

“Yes, Abigail.” he smiled. “I mean it. I think he is ready. I think everyone is ready. We are going to leave this country tomorrow.”

“And going where?”

“Italy.”

“Oh, I always liked Italy.” she said, absent-minded. Hannibal nodded as if it settled the matter.

“You will go to college there. Have a life. I have our new identities somewhere around here…”

“What is my new name?”

“Hana.”

“Hana…” she rolled the name around her tongue. “I like it.”

“Well, grab your things, then. We are leaving this place as soon as you are ready.”

“Are we running from something?” a pause. “Hannibal?”

“Of course not, Abigail.” he said, finally. “What would we be running from?”

**//**

The room was dark and humid. She was foggy, maybe, everything with an ethereal quality that muttered on her ear the truth of what was happening. _Anesthetized,_ she thought to herself, vaguely. _I am anesthetized._ She moved her eyes, trying to learn the _where_ and _how_ and _what_ and _why_. She couldn’t move her head. It was stuck? Or was she just too drugged, who knew. She tried to sigh in frustration, but she gave up after a few seconds. Nothing hurt but nothing was feeling good either. She was… just floating.  It was a weird feeling.

“How are you feeling?” a voice asked her. She blinked. There was something wrong with her face, maybe; she wished she was strong enough to raise her hand and touch it. “Do you want some water?”

She blinked again, lost. _Where am I?_ she opened her mouth to say, but the sounds didn’t come out. The silence extended for what felt like a long time. _Where am I?_

“You’re safe.” the voice told her. It was all lies, she decided. Her mind was foggy but she wasn’t stupid. Anesthesia always meant that shit went down.

“What…” she breathed.

“What are you saying, Abigail?” the voice became closer. “Tell me.”

“My…” she stopped, confused. “...ear?”

“Oh.” the voice breathed, amused. “It’s kind of a funny story.”

**//**

Winston was running around, happy for being able to roll on the grass. He was a happy dog, cute and harmless. Abigail was trying to convince Harley to chase the stick she was holding, but with zero success. She sighed when Harley lie down, looking at her with eyes who were saying _give up, girl._ Abigail didn’t _want_ to give up, but what choice did she have? Poke Harley into submission?

“She has a bad personality”, Will said, from the door. He looked worse for wear, really, like the last time he slept had been 72 hours before. Which, Abigail thought, was probably true. He also looked like he could use a hot meal, a bath and a nap. And maybe a personality transplant; for one more nice to his body and mind.

Abigail loved him, so she smiled.

“I was trying to make Harley engage in human interaction. With, you know, _me._ I think she isn’t interested, though.”

“Uh, she is just a quiet lady — a little older than the others. She doesn’t like puppy games anymore.” he knelt beside the dog, petting her behind the ears. “She likes you, Abigail. Isn’t she making you company instead of running with her siblings?”

“Oh! Do you think so?”

“Ah, yes. Harley always says more with her silence than with her, uh, barks.”

Abigail laughed. Will looked pleased with himself, like making Abigail happy was the nicest thing that could have ever happened to him.

(Parenting makes people crazy).

“I tried throwing the stick with Winston, too, but he was so excited about everything that he brought back a piece of garbage, as if saying _the secret of life is being proactive_.”

“Sounds like Winston.”

“Now he is just rolling on the grass. His literal favorite activity.” she paused, giggling too much to speak. “Isn’t he great?”

“Very great”, Will agreed, amicably.

“I’m happy that you have so many dogs.”

“Oh, I’m happy about it too. I love raising them. There’s nothing in the world more loyal and friendly than a dog.”

“I wish people were more like them.”

“Oh, yeah. But then I wouldn’t have a job. And we would be homeless.”

Abigail sighed, petting Harley. “The world sucks.”

“Don’t tell me, honey.” he looked sadder for a moment. “Don’t tell me.”

**//**

_Do you remember,_ she started writing, _this time with the fish? We were fishing, because that’s the literal only thing you could think of doing as a bonding exercise, and I caught this red one_ — _what was the name?_ — _and you were suitable impressed. I guess that since you lost all my childhood you are indulging me now. I don’t mind. You can keep doing that. I know you love me and that you will always have my back._

_And I’m so sorry._

[sentences cut off]

_Dad, I lied in the first paragraph. We never went fishing, because Hannibal took me away two weeks before the day you told me we would go. But you know that. The same way I know that I could never send this letter to you. Or call you. Or even text._

_I have to believe that I made the right decision coming here, wherever_ here _is. That Hannibal cares, and would never hurt me; that he loves you, and was telling me the truth. I chose to accept the circumstances; I’m not proud of it. All that I did I did because I was too scared, and I don’t know how to stop following these figures of authority that hold so much power over me._

_Dad, you were right. Alana was a bad idea._

_I was wrong. I should have called you instead of entering that car with Hannibal. But he is my father too! And how could I turn my back to this small, meaningful thing? How could I survive the thought of someone that I love is once again plotting against my life? Or am I just collateral damage?_

_Dad, I’m stopping now. I’ve wrote twenty three letters to you, and two to my Ma. I thought about writing to my Father but I wouldn’t waste my breath. I can’t do it anymore. I‘m burning every page. Please, hold my words to heart, as my future is uncertain and I could be dead tomorrow._

_I wish I could send them to you._

_From your daughter with love,_

_Abigail._

_(the mess with the surname is still bothering me)._

**//**

Abigail looked through the window, watching the trees changing type, color and height while the car passed at 120 km/h. When she was a child she used to think that the world was the one that moved, and that the car stayed motionless. When she told that to her mother, Louise looked at Abigail like she wasn’t a particularly bright child. She said, then, very deliberately, _How could that be true?_

“Where are we going?” she asked, more to make small talk than moved by some desire to have Hannibal once again half-ass explaining why he was kidnapping her. She looked at the clock and thought, _Oh. I’m in this car for two hours. Should I jump out and run?_

Hannibal glanced at her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “It’s just thirty minutes and then we’ll be there.”

“I still think we should’ve warned Will. He probably already noticed we are missing. Isn’t it cruel to make him go through all this anxiety, especially since you told me you’ll be telling him the truth soon enough?”  

“Will can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

Abigail didn’t agree. Will had hold a lot of her burdens without ever looking like the weight of her evilness was crushing down his shoulders. She kept her opinion to herself, though, because she didn’t know what was happening, didn’t know why she had to go, and if there was anything at all that her father taught her it was about the value of keeping her cards close to her chest.

It wasn’t that Abigail didn’t love Hannibal — she did. It’s just that it was always impossible to know where you were standing with him, and it made uneasy blind her eyes. But she knew, she _knew_ that he couldn’t be terrible. Will, who was so like a puppy, loved him so much!

“How long do you think that I’ll have to hide? You talked about college. This is the kind of thing that has an expiration date.”

“Just a while.” he answered her, “Just a little while.”

Abigail didn’t believe him for a second, since he had that same look that generally meant he was telling a lot of crap — but what could she possibly do beside rest her head against the window and try to take a nap?

 _I miss my life,_ she thought before sleeping, _I just don’t know which one._

**//**

Abigail traced the words carved on the rock with the tip of her fingers. She followed the _Here_ and the _lies_ and the _Louise Hobbs._ She tried to touch the _Mother_ and the _Daughter_ and the _Wife,_ but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Because that was a stupid, ugly joke — a painful one, the kind that makes you cry.

She always hated clowns.

 _May you rest in peace with the Lord_ , told the grave. Abigail made the sign of the cross, honoring her Catholic mother who tried so hard to _not see anything_ right until the end. The smell of wine and guilt, with the side of burning grass and blood. Abigail always wanted to grab Louise by the shoulders, shake her and yell Did you know? Did you _know_? All these years, _did you fucking know_?

(Why didn’t you _help me_?)

At least, the person who ended up in charge of burying the dead Hobbs had the minimum amount of decency and put them both in opposite sides of the cemetery. If Abigail ever went visiting her mother again she would be so very far away from her murderous father that she would even breathe better.

“May the Lord be with thee”, she muttered, her hand still on the _lie_ in the grave. She missed Louise so much — sometimes it was almost like she was suffocating, drowning, trapped in a room with the walls closing off. “How are you feeling, Ma? Well, silly me. I guess you’re glad. Your role in the nightmare is over now.” she sighed, looking at the one solitary white tulip that she had bought to her mother. “I won’t ever have children, I decided it yesterday. That’s why I’m here after all these months; I came to tell you that you’ve got to let go of any grandchildren dreams because I’m not giving birth to a child to be like this. To live like this. You should have told me before that life was hell. I used to think it would be roses and lemonade. Pretty dumb, I know. Anyway, I have parents again. You’re dead and so are Father. But I’m alive, and I was adopted. They love me. They genuinely love me. So you don’t need to worry about me, because I’m breathing and I will continue doing so for a long time yet. Goodbye, Ma, be in peace. And say hi to God for me.”

Abigail looked just one last time, the _Mother, daughter, wife_ and the _Here_ and the _lies._ She rested the white tulip on the ground and left without looking back — not even once.

**//**

The sound of yelling and fighting and pushing and stabbing was so loud that Abigail hid under the table. She was in one of the bedrooms, because Hannibal said to her, _You have to stay out of the way, angel, because today is such a beautiful day._ Which meant that she ended up curled there, against the wall, close to the bed, trying to breathe. Someone was dying — loudly — in the kitchen. She thought about going down the stairs only twice: the first one to run away and the second to help Hannibal so they could have silence again. But she was not a killer ( _They say that I was traumatized…_ ), and Hannibal told her that Will was going to show up soon, and she didn’t want to be covered in blood. Because one of them should be presentable enough to go out buying last things for their trip to Italy, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be her parents.

Abigail looked through the window, saw Alana and thought _Shit._ She wanted to know what went wrong, why there was so much people in their house, so many _witnesses_ , can’t they see that they were dead the moment that they touched the front door?

The yelling got worse and terrified — that was when Abigail knew that something downright terrible was going to happen. It was the same feeling that she got when her father picked up that phone during dinner, the voice in the back of her head saying _run, hide, hurt, kill, get away._ She got out of under the table, went to the darkest part of the room and waited.

When the sound of Alana’s shoes got closer to the door, the heels like _toc, toc, toc_ — Abigail had already finished two Hail Mary for her soul. Then the sound of a knob turning, and Alana’s face (was she crying? was that tears or blood on her face?), “ _Abigail_?”

“I’m sorry”, she said, pushing her psychiatrist who had done nothing wrong through the window, the glass scattering, because she knew what she had to do, she knew who she was and what was the price of having a family — this one that it’s a debt you must always pay —; Alana Bloom had to die so Abigail, Will and Hannibal could finally _live_. “I’m so sorry”, she muttered as the sound of a body crushing against the ground went loudly to her ears (is she injured? is she dead?) “I’m their daughter and I could never be any better...”

 _The thing about hunting it’s that it’s all about this choice,_ Garrett’s voice whispered to her, the ghost of a day in the forest when she was fifteen and the body of a brown-haired girl rested dead against her shoes, _This tiny decision that you must make, and must bear. And it’s simple, pie, it’s very simples: someone has to die, so will it be them or will it be_ you _?_

**//**

Abigail rested her ear — the one that she had left — against the door and tried to will herself into stop breathing. After a while, she was pretty sure that she was hearing the unmistakable sound of someone crying. It sounded terrified, the noise an animal would do after realizing that it was trapped forever and would certainly die.

Abigail’s door wasn’t locked — she was Hannibal’s daughter, not his prisoner. She could, if she was brave enough, go there and help whoever it was out of their chains, hand them some water, open the gate and tell them to run. She could stand between her father and that dumb, innocent victim; she could do for someone what she wished had been done for her, she could open their cage and they could then fly away.

It was a beautiful dream, though, something that would never happen. The most she would ever do was continuing sitting there, on the cold floor using only pajamas, and bear witness of this stranger’s death. That way, someone in this world would always remember of their last seconds, even if it was such a hollowed comfort.

 _I’m so evil,_ she thought, _that I’m putting my safety over your life. It’s just that if I let you go then my life is over. If I let you go then Hannibal is going to move me again, and maybe even force me to fly the country entirely. I would never see dad again. I wish I could be good, but they told me we were going to be a family, and I can’t force myself to give up on that._

The person cried louder when the front door opened. Abigail knew that it had to mean Hannibal was back, and she really thought for a second about leaving her bedroom like nothing was amiss, and going there to say hello, asking for food. If he went cooking, then she would have a few unsupervised minutes to _do something,_ anything.

She wouldn’t, though. She didn’t.

Abigail stayed in her bedroom, her ear — the one that she had left — against the door, hearing this person begging, crying, screaming and dying. She muttered _may god help your soul, may god erase your sins_ over and over and over again. She prayed because she was feeling terrible, but she stayed because she wasn’t feeling guilty enough to go out there and help. She locked her door, the key cool against her hand, and closed her eyes — just for a minute. Just to think about anything else.

Four, maybe five hours later, she woke up almost frozen to death with the sound of Hannibal calling out for her to go eat breakfast. It meant that whatever hell the living room was the stage for was already washed away, ready for a brand new day. It also meant that he would be leaving shortly, and she was going to stay all alone in that house, wishing she would be brave enough to leave. _He loves me,_ she told to herself, steely, like she did every day, _I’m nothing like those people that he kills. He loves me, and my door is always unlocked, I can walk away whenever I want. I’m his daughter, not his prisoner._

She went to the kitchen, where fancy food waited for her. Every time Hannibal cooked something she would be kicked back to that early days, when she would have her family close to her touch, and the only problem would be her therapy, one of Will’s dogs being sick and this surreal possibility of spend all her days drinking tea, talking about fishing and eating well.

(she thought that it would be like that forever)

“Did you sleep well?” Hannibal asked, handing her a cup of orange juice.

“I did”, she answered, without meeting his eyes. “Thank you.”

“I think we should buy you a new pillow. Every time I see you in the morning you look like you slept in a really uncomfortable way.”

“The pillow is fine.” she answered him, “It was just a headache.”

“Do you want some pills?”

“Father! I’m fine. How is dad?”

“He misses you, of course.”

“When will I see him?”

“Soon.”

“And when is it?”

“It’s _soon_ , Abigail.”

“I miss our life.” she muttered to her plate where she had piled all the food not meat-related. “I used to be so happy.”

“And you’ll be again, angel.” he smiled at her, and it looked so sincere!, once upon a time she would have believed him. “All of us, together.”

“I love you, father.” she told him, like a parrot that says the same thing every day without ever knowing what it really meant.

“And I love you, sweetie.”

They smiled at each other, both of them deliberately not thinking about the big freezer in the cellar.

**//**

Abigail felt the tears soaking her cheeks, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t say anything, she couldn’t scream, she couldn’t help. She just watched, entirely helpless, while Will got so close of Hannibal, she thought _maybe— (they love each other)_ , but then the knife. Abigail heard this sound, it couldn’t be human, it wouldn’t make sense, but it was, because she was the one who did that.

She used the table to keep herself from falling down; her legs didn’t work anymore. There was words — her parents were talking —, but she couldn’t think about anything but the blood. It was on the wall were Will was lying, on his shirt, on Hannibal’s hand, on the knife. Abigail was sure that it must have been on her cheeks, too, because it didn’t seem true that all of that were just her tears. She felt helpless, hopeless, just watching this terrible, terrifying scene play out, held against her will as witness of the end of her world.  

She heard Will’s voice calling her name, _Abigail,_ blood, _Abigail,_ coughing, _Abigail…_ She wanted to go there, hold his hand. She belonged with her family, but it wasn’t her parents once again killing each other, and dragging her down with them? Wasn’t it just this vicious cycle, and wasn’t she trapped in it?

_(Wouldn’t be better die?)_

“Abigail”, Hannibal said, very clear. After one year having only that voice as company, she was more than used to listen and obey (he made question that she was always ready to leave a safe house for another, to look at the other side while some wall or some floor was just _too red_ ), “come here.”

She breathed, trying to think. Is this suicide when you just walk into the slaughterhouse? "Don't come.” Will tried to tell her, coughing half-dead.

 _He loves me,_ she thought, _and he always will._ That was why she let go of the table, let go of her life, and walked into Hannibal’s arms, tuning out all pleas and threats and cry, every word coming out of Will’s mouth because he wanted her to _run run run_ and wasn’t this enough? She couldn’t go through that again. The burial, the grave, the absence. The running and hiding and lying and turning your face away.  

She was ready to leave. At least, if Will survived, Abigail would have someone to mourn the woman she was in that first year, the happy one, the _better_ one, the one who was Will’s daughter, who loved to cuddle dogs, who talked about fishing and complained about tea.

She could say that Hannibal ruined her, but wouldn’t that be such a big lie?

Abigail kept her eyes open, her head held high, when she felt the cold of the knife. It was still soaked in Will’s blood, and she thought that so very fitting! She smiled, a little, and told Will — told them both — _I love you._

(you were _amazing_ )

and then, she couldn’t say anything else. she died on the cold, cold ground, hugged close by her dad, her back turned to her father.

**//**

“Don’t you think Chester is a little fat?” Abigail asked Will, her hair in a ponytail, trying to shade her eyes with her hand, looking for the dogs. Will wanted company while walking them, and Abigail knew he could use all the help.

“Fat? He isn’t fat. He is the ideal weight.”

“You’re overfeeding all of them.” Abigail pointed out.

“Eh. That’s not true.” he paused, and she knew he was steeling himself to say something. She waited for it, since could be anything. “Are you really going to spend three weeks at your Aunt’s in South Carolina?”

“Father opened up his big mouth to you.”

“I just wish you had told me, that’s all.”

“Dad! I’m _coming back._ It’s just three weeks. Can you survive it?”

“I worry about you.”

“I know. I worry about you too.” she grinned at him. “But it’s not forever! You’ll see me again.”

“I will miss the hell out of you.”

Abigail laughed, the sun making her hair look almost gold. “I love you, dad.”

“I love you, princess.”

She waved at him, smiling and happy, “I’ll see you soon.”

He watched her go, asking himself _will I ever love anyone else this much?_

**//**

if will could ever ask for anything to any god, he would ask for time.

all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> the last year of abigail's life: delusion. convince urself


End file.
